silver

Scenes From a Femdom Marriage

by

We were 3/4 of the way through an episode of Mice & Murder when I realized we were starting to procrastinate on our pre- planned play time. He is going in and out of a doze because he has already seen this episode, but he’d also put this on in the first place after we’d already watched the back half of the prior one and Saturday is definitely drawing to a lazy close with things, or rather him, left undone. That won’t do. I tell him to pause the show and strip, while I start rummaging to find my latex catsuit in the three boxes the latex is stored in. I have wanted to do this since yesterday, almost did it last afternoon of my own volition, but his work day ended early and instead we cuddled with his head against my chest and the stress of things seeping from him in an almost audible hiss. 

It wasn’t the right moment then, not just for his obvious state of stress, but because I have been a bit fragile too. While he would have been able to transition from the vagaries of tech industry imperial court nonesense into helpless little bitch mode, I knew then I would need more emotional uplift from him than he was prepared to give if I was going to hurdle into into the head state to treat him like a besotted fuck toy and not obsess over my own troubles. You can do the surprise firm pounce on a stressed person, but not when you can feel the raw edge that if something goes wrong in your bullying, on your side, you might end up in tears.

Instead, the other day I had vocalized, around previously scheduled D&D sessions and farmer’s market trips, I wanted to take time to do more than the casual default we had gotten into the pattern of doing. This weekend Something More should happen. And it was important I put it on our mental calendars, because we aren’t doing it as much these days, and that’s not what I want for us. 

It’s a hazard, in couples that live together, that kink stops being An Event. Even as you still have the sexual energy of a couple of rabbits, you can just coast on your prior exploits. It’s not a dead bedroom, or a default to vanilla, either. It’s almost that the emotion/narrative of all the elaborate nonsense that has passed between you so far wears a reliable groove where trying hard is no longer necessary. You get the couple version of how you can get so comfortable with your particular kink you don’t need to read the whole story/watch the film/finish the fantasy to come, just the idea of it. In a couple, much as you can look at eachother and toss out just the punchline to a running joke to make the other person laugh, with mutual kink dynamics of any tenure you can just hit one or two of the right spots and bam, you go from slightly in the mood to done, cozy together and discussing what veggies in the fridge need to be cooked up first before they wilt into the trash heap. 

It’s not that that’s not nice, in itself. In fact that’s sort of the ideal foundation, but if that’s all you do, over time it starts feeling like just how easy it is comes is at the expense of the potential highs of putting in a smigen more effort. I’d even told him maybe after an episode of Dimension20 we should play, but now I can feel the inertia of the cozy bed and when I start hearing the little whistle of his semi unconscious breath I know, very starkly that if I don’t say something now, all that is going to happen is some makeouts, and edging session and then I will make myself come and there’s nothing left of the day but dinner.

And honestly I am not tracking this episode either, just surfing erotica on my phone intermittently. I can almost perfectly visualize the episode ending in another 10 minutes, be kissing, and the way that just immediately goes to me coming and then  him making roast chicken and the peach cobbler I also planned. So I take control. The TV goes off. I tell him he is going to help me suit up. We are going to do this. 

Of course there’s another delay. He makes a trip to the bathroom and I need to pee before this suit is going on, so I sort of wait around in anticipation unable to do much else. I am both psyching myself out and being cross enough with my own brain that I am in a simmer of horny and cranky. I remind myself that I trust him and if things don’t actually click this late afternoon it isn’t the end of our kink life. Now he is chilled out enough I can be insecure without is just being a buzz kill.

So, dressing, we talk about how I am worried the suit won’t fit (I am learning to deal with a healthier, but fatter body) and navigate around how I messed up my shoulder last month in a way that compresses my ulnar nerve. That’s been the other major damper on our play. It’s hard to feel attractive when extending your right arm causes immediate 7/10 pain. But the injury is better and the suit fits fine. Kink Engineering does good work and while there is a lingering stiffness on my injured side I can feel from the latex full body squeeze, it’s trivial. 

I remind myself of the same thing I did after our first play time and he drove me 4 hours home. I trust he wants to be here and knows how not to offer what he doesn’t actually want to give. I trust him to be an adult, not a martyr, and a veteran kinkster who long since discarded unreasonable kink expectations. There’s like 5 minutes of polishing and sort of trying to get into the groove. I am still so jangly it feels like he isn’t there, in that mindless lust state, but I am also aware even if he was, my brain is enough of a scumbag to lie he isn’t. So I tell him to choose the position I am going to fuck him in, and snatch the harness from where it hangs in the closet.

Of *course* the dildo I want is missing, and he has to get up to help me find the box of cocks. We go through and “um, pick one of these three” moment with some other reluables, but I find the general, a more implausible toy. There’s my hair and fluff stuck to it and I am distracted by cleaning it. If I was more organized, I would have had my chosen cock in hand before I suited up, but that’s not who I am. I tend to play by inspiration, not a script, even my own. I walk tiptoe to the kitchen sink so as not to lubricate our floor worse from any silicone that drips off me. Silver, out of the three, picks the bumpy white one he usually prefers.

That one is kind of meh for strapon play because it has a hollow core at the base you are supposed to lodge a bullet vibe. I think this is an unfortunate choice, and it makes it worse for thrusting, but I am not going to nitpick after asking, because that’s a bedroom confidence killing move and I did offer. And, in fairness it’s a visually pretty toy with ridges just where they need to be. If the designer hadn’t given it a vibe pocket it would be my number 1 too.

However, at the lubing him stage I determine that his ass, usually drum tight, is pretty loose today. This is incredibly variable, with some days it being a bit tender, too. Not today, perhaps due to the on his back spread V he chose. My fingers just shloop in, as my gloved hand works him over. I can get four to the knuckle easy, his absolute limit on his best days. 

Butt stuff is always a delicate process, emotionally, because even cleaned out you may find something. I can’t even call them “surprises”. That’s like opening your fridge and being surprised it has food in it. Pretty universally, the one getting filled is in a much more emotionally vulnerable place because they are worried about being an object of disgust. But, today he is clean, not even notable santorum. An idea, already planted from my rummage of the cock-box forms.

He is already edging away while I work, as it’s the other trick to open someone up- and every stab of crooked fingers into his prostate is getting significant reactions. Reader, lest you doubt there is anything going on other than this sort of physical mechanics there is significant dialogue being exchanged by way of psychological stimulation, but up until this point things aren’t quite feeling they click for me. When I am jamming him into proper groans I start feeling the connection I want, but it’s still taking a while to warm up.

Chronic pain, body changes, all that bullshit really get in the way. Yet it’s the most pain free day I have had in a month and I am still pushing through the sort of bad feeling hangover. I do end up giving him a few thrusts with the strap-on loaded with his ridgey pick, but this isn’t quite it. I make a judgment call.

The ruddy, plump headed general had already been thrust into his mouth after it’s impromptu rinse. I’d left it lying on the bed next to his hip, and I scoop it up, announcing that he is going to take this for me, too. I am pretty sure he’s limber enough for some moderately advanced anal invasion.

Fucking men in the ass in your terns is not the universal apex of dominance, but the knowledge of his body combined with my fetish for larger insertions is making things lubricate on my side as much as he is opening up on his. I don’t force it, nudging, with many groans and whimpers on his side.

It’s actually hard not to stop here because the noise he makes in pain and the noise of not really pain at all but just hitting the spot just so are pretty similar. That’s where my experience with him matters. After pulling the literal plug well before his limit numerous times, I know that if I stop now I will be over cautious. I can, as it’s after all as much my prerogative to stop at my limit as much as everything must stop at his. But precisely because of the number of times I have stopped sooner than he’d have liked, in this moment I know just how much further I can go.

We have never discussed this as an official safeword, but I know now the moment it turns into a harsh, “Fuck!” is actually the stop point. We aren’t there yet, but it’s a nudge forward/nudge back kind of thing where one step away to ease up only means two steps deeper, after.

I drop into soothing encouragement. He is so focused on the challenge at hand that he won’t have more than mono syllables or little head twitches to work with. That’s more than enough and the general is several inches lodged, exactly where I want it.

At this point it’s not about depth but travel. In, out, never entirely popping free. His hand is still pumping his cock up and down in a way that’s basically instinct to him. The toy is gliding nice and easy. There’s a definite sensation of finite space and resistance on my end, gripping the flared base and leaning into it, but it’s neither a hard block nor rough scrape. I couldn’t tell you in minutes how long this goes on. Honestly the whole thing feels pretty brief, in hindsight. In the moment it’s enough, the way pleasurable sensation lingers, like a mouthful of something delicious making things seem to extend past the gulp, chew, linger, mmm, and swallow.

But, Silver is particularly quickly undone to size… if I can get it in. A whole sideline exploration into inflatable plugs has taught me that he’s a combo of a tight ring, but weak to a firm jam up against the underside of his cock. The general, and probably my encouraging but persistent running patter about how he is taking it, he is going to take it, this is for me, etc… have got him to the point where he yanks that hand away from his cock, now, with a great deal of urgency. He utters something about being close.

I wasn’t going to make him come, I planned, prior when I first started thinking about slithering into the catsuit, to leave him wanting. This always happens, every time things get prolonged. I tell him he may.

Well, precisely I tell him if my cock and only my cock forces him to come that was meant to happen. And it does. It’s like pushing him off a precipice all that manual edging placed him on, but it’s also a sensation like the invader in his ass is forcibly displacing the semen out of him. After he is done he stays in position looking utterly drained, even as I ease the dildo out of him and post it into the sink as well.

Check ins do not end where I expect, however. He stays put and spread, but as sandbagged as he is acting there’s and insistent second wind. I chase that to see where it goes, with his hand back on his cock and another, fresh dildo wedged into his mouth.

Crooning more nonesense mantra about holes and their utility quickly shows he has a rare second go in him. I am on my period, and what I want, to engulf him, feels a bit too much. I slick my thighs with more lube and get him to fuck those instead. That isn’t quite right, though it feels good.

The catsuit has an access zip, but it’s in the way and I am too slippery to come now with this on. I make another decision in the moment and send him to get a fresh towel. The tampon gets posted into the bathroom trash.

When he is back, there’s a bit of a decline in turgidity and I can see things sliding into performance frustration because at first it’s not wanting to couple up they way he hopes. I take charge again and essentially grab him by the brain, commanding with firm confidence it doesn’t matter. I wrap my legs tight around him. His job is to rut. He will obey. Doing that and even losing a small lake of cum earlier isn’t enough to stop him going the rest of the way hard. Then he is mine, completely engaged. I croon that he will fuck to exhaustion or until he breaks and falls. 

Still unusual for us, it’s the latter, intense, even more so than the first time. He is limp on top of me and I am holding him, reminding him he did a good job. Only when he recovers do I turn firm again. This catsuit is coming off because I want an orgasm and it is now in the way.

He helps me slither out, careful of the fragile material. I am on my back and he is helping, at my direction, with how I want my breasts touched. My orgasm is not long after that, finally, long awaited. 

I don’t recall much of the rest of the evening other than the chicken and potatoes, and that we both cleaned off somehow. I do remember two sets of cozy pajamas, and holding him with many uttered affectionate statements of love, but the rest blurs into the many nights that have been and will be just like this one, in bed until we are asleep. 

The Unspoken Hazards of Kinky Sex in a Domestic Setting (Or a Latex Kink Cautionary Tale)

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A Latex Kink Cautionary Tale

To outsiders we are a typical sort of couple in the Pacific Northwest: a gymnast bodied Midwestern blond built on compact, slim lines and a penchant for short sleeved polos as casual wear, and a long limbed heavy hipped pile of curves in black and jewel toned low effort alt fashion. We live in still mildly mortifying comfort (to me): nice gym with Cross Fit (for him) and Pilates (for me). I am learning to crochet at a Stitch and Bitch. We go to the Farmers Market biweekly and there’s fresh berries with most breakfasts. Once a month or so, we take his practical little car into Seattle proper from our exurb situation and do something cultural with an art show or music.

You would assume correctly our politics are progressive and our hobbies involve things like tabletop RPGs or board games. There’s thousands of versions of us walking about, drawn here by climate, employment and the privilege of not having your values and aesthetics be the lunatic fringe.

Unlike many people, we are latex fetishists. Other than being hard on the pocket book, this presents its own risks.

Rubber, in its natural state, is neither shiny nor inclined to slide easily over the contours of the body. Latex clothing is hard to get into. It sticks to you and it’s not particularly resilient, tearing under too much rough handling. If you want in to your wardrobe you are going to need to make yourself slippery, and ideally you will want something that buffs what you are wearing to a gloss. 

Those who are familiar know this means copious amounts of silicone lube, a clear, oily feeling substance that’s insoluble in water and largely inert.

Oil (as any person with good sex ed knows) will cause the material to start to break down. That’s why you don’t use oil based lubes with traditional condoms. Talcum was the old timey solution and is now known to regularly contain asbestos – so much as baby powder has switched to corn starch, so is this used as an alternative, though as you might imagine it does nothing if your goal is shine. I also find powder based lubricants gum everything up while adding more of an abrasive than a shiner. A fancy process (chlorination) gives pieces a permanent slightly duller  gloss, but takes away some of the stretch and gives it a papery feel.

The solution is the aforementioned silicone lubricant. Made (elementally) of the same stuff as the sand on a beach and the glass in your windows, it’s a modern miracle of science that gives us much more rugged baby bottle nipples, a caulking agent, easy demolding bakeware, hair defrizzer, bendy yet body safe dildos you can sterilize by boiling, and this. You get it for a bit of extra money online or through specialty (sex) shops, because even the good pharmacies in Canada tend to only stock water and occasionally oil based options.

Maybe we will discover, years from now, that we’ve made a huge mistake with this magical material, but for now we have bottles of this all over our home. Guests over means a quick whip round to retrieve them lest they require explaining. Sure it’s a bit odd to have it everywhere, but it’s handy. We use it for edging Silver, several times a day if that can be managed; for sex where it plays nice with my flora; and of course for the rubber escapades I mentioned, which compliment the whole BDSM femdom thing we have going on. 

Getting dressed in rubber is about like the cliche corset yanking scenes in bad historical films combined with trying to haul a pair of mid aughts skinny jeans up to your shoulders. That is, if the garment in question cost more than most of your wardrobe and sometimes as much as a wedding dress, of course, and also needed silk stocking level careful handling. To do so you slick yourself up and the inside of it up. That’s palmfuls of silicone on your limbs, but also any expanse of you that you want the garment to go over AND squirting liberal dollops of silicone into the garment and then smoothing it all over. 

You also don’t want the garment to be too slick outside, until you have it on, lest it sproing from your grip and you pull it on. Most pieces have a zipper down the back and there’s all sorts of hacks like using a boot lace and a safety pin to pull them up, but generally you also need to hold the garment closed while you pull. A second pair of hands dressing make all the difference, and there’s a technique on top of it, in dressing. Like getting a toddler into a snow suit, firm but not too firm. If you have sharp nails you further can protect your outfit by wearing gloves.

The garment (except for fresh from whatever atelier that made it) will also already have at least some silicone residue on it. For storage, after a wash in a very gentle (unscented!) soap, you rinse in cool water with more silicone mixed into that, leaving a surface coating. Once dried you further pack it with archive friendly tissue paper, so it won’t do the other thing rubber likes to do, which is stick to itself to the point of fusing. After it’s on, something will feel misaligned and you will probably gloop a bit more silicone in through neck or arm holes. 

In short, you will be wearing a skin tight rubber bag very full of lube. The process of getting it on will also be surprisingly taxing, wrestling a full body resistance band. It wants to grab and pinch fleshy bits, at least if you don’t smooth it right or it doesn’t sit on your widest points just so. Then you will do activities that make you sweat even more, mixing with the aforementioned lubrication. And maybe other fluids. 

When the deed, whatever you were doing, was done, be it a fashion shoot or fornication, you will be even more damp. Getting out is usually easier, with the sweat/lube mix enough to slide everything back off into a distressing crumpled pile on the floor. The first thing you will notice, once stripped, is that you are absolutely freezing. Your body in the latex adjusted itself for what it thought was the height of summer humidity. With the gear off, all that sweat and lube is now lukewarm and chilling fast as it drips off you. You will probably immediately want a shower.

And you will discover the other magical property of silicone lube is that it lasts and lasts. You will be spectacularly moisturized. If you used it in you, your cavities will still have traces a day later. After you wash your clothes, the sink or bathtub will need a good scrub. And while if you were smart your play (or model) space was protected by drop cloths (nothing says sex appeal like draping the room in old bed sheets!), but somehow or another it will also get everywhere else.

On carpet it tends to vanish into the “try not to think about this too hard” situation the way most invisible contaminants are left to rest. On tile or linoleum, well…

Our apartment is done with that currently fashionable, grey-beige faux wood linoleum, in all the main areas. The kitchen, living area, bathroom and the long hall that connects everything else is the same glossy grey, varied enough in texture you won’t spot where the pattern repeats, smooth and easy to spot mop. It beats carpet in my kitchen, but it has its own drawbacks. Remember how I said the first thing you want after latex comes off is a shower? Thanks to the layout of the place, that’s a near half minute trek in a connecting long bit that joins kitchen/living area, bedroom, office, bath and some rather large closets. Inevitably, somehow in the most trafficked area a few drops of silicone find their way. Invisible until you step, just slippery enough to make your foot slide askew and check your balance. 

Days later, every latex session is still a slip and fall hazard, but worse, a camouflaged surprise one that can materialize anywhere down that hall.

This happens every damn time. You can mop it, but you can’t see it. Finding it is caressing your hand against a smooth surface and looking for something just a bit more slippery. Soap and water helps, but it’s not a perfect solution because of that aforementioned lube’s staying power. Even bringing out the big guns of a teaspoon of dish soap on where you think the spot is, and you very well can miss just a micro drop.

Dear reader, if my debauchery someday does me in, it won’t be breath play gone wrong. It won’t be a folie à deux into increasingly deranged power exchange, nor sadomasochism loosed to run riot. It will be a mundane slip fall where I break my neck because one tenth of a gram of lube escaped the mop four days after my submissive spent fifteen minutes in a neck to toe rubber sleep sack. 

I Got Married to Silver

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The Pacific Northwest is pretty and reliably temperate most months of the year. My life is taken on some comfortable aspects and some aspects of disquieting idleness, sitting in the sort of lucky it feels like impolite bragging to share.

I got married last month and elopement at a courthouse dressed and simple white broderie anglaise, quick vows and paperwork with two witnesses. I did so because I love him and this is the most reliable shot we have at together, forever. That’s staring down the gauntlet of more paperwork and a long exile from my homeland. But I can be very confident in my belief Silver is worth it. He’s worth is because he is wonderful, inspiring, makes me happy and is confidently happy to do the complex kinky things we both crave.

My writing brain hasn’t been with me for the last little while. Nonetheless, the desire and my sexuality maintains. It’s a relationship where, at a distance, we’d call thrice a day and have the energetic enthusiasm to edge him silly each time. Together, we share a bed every night in an apartment that feels much too nice and I plan a little gathering in the fall, with family, to celebrate my marriage.

I make tentative steps outside the home, to a femdom munch in Seattle, monthly, run sharper and smart than mine ever were. If you are in town you should go, and can easily find details on fetlife. I already met one reader, which is fun. Though those pesky health issues linger, I do my best to stay involved where my stamina lets me.

The kink remains foremost. We prioritized that from day 1. He is as randy as a man half his age and it fits what I want. It’s simply there, often light, a hand reach to his throat away. Likewise, I find him beautiful. He’s a Midwestern, blue eyed, built more spare in frame with a gymnast’s propensity to bending, under a relentless maintained layer of shoulder to ankle muscle. This is balanced at equilibrium that he neither wants to return to actual utility for his white collar life, nor allow into neck stiffening thickness.

My own body is softer, a little wonky, but the urges are still there under the flesh. I want and I remain hungry for this. I miss the energy I used to have, to do things as much as I used to, but I peck away where I can. I’m learning to crochet, and maintaining the health I do have by using the gifts of where I live to try to push myself to exercise as regularly as I can manage. It’s paid some dividends.

If you imagine our household s something of elaborate protocol, him constantly demeaned, you would be wrong. It is with respect my hand takes his throat. That he affectionately comes where I am curled on the couch in a nest of blankets and kisses the tops of my feet. Our vows did not reflect the ownership of my Property, true, but they carried in them the seed and scaffold under which we do what we do.

I think I have the best anyone could want or aspire to.

Gravity and Kitchens

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I love you very much, painfully so, with the yearning of spending too much time apart. We are that couple, together, in public, but just as much with no eyes on us but each other. 

Red filter overlaying a fancy kitchen with white text "FEMDOM DESIRE | Yearning in Motion| Gravity & Kitchens | Mundane architecture and high end, self-thrusting sextoys"

I cannot recall the music, writing this now, but I remember, in late February, dancing in the kitchen with you, guarding for the slight slip of my black cotton tights on the faux wood linoleum as we shimmy-twist. Alongside the peril of losing my footing, it’s distracting how beautiful you look in motion, in a blue blazer over a light blue button down. Your body tapers sharply from your shoulders, shimmying. I’m wearing the green vintage dress you bought me for Christmas. When we pull apart and I twirl, the skirt bells out, all picturesque.

We have returned from a Pike Place Market french restaurant, where I stole half of one of your crab cakes, and you took, at my urging, half my salmon filet. I think I got the better trade, though there was nothing wrong with my fish. 

There was a window to the restaurant kitchen marked by a pile of citrus fruits, aiming to put themselves into the dining area to make things feel more casual, or maybe make the most of the space. Once upon a time, in the 70s, this was a jazz spot, but its so crowded I wonder where they used to put the musicians. Still, it’s well prepared fresh fish, bread with a $5 up charge and pleasant crab cakes. And noise, lots of it, more crush and clatter than intimacy. The hints of old music, there, are drowned out in the excess of the conversation of others. I am content, holding back my urge to nitpick this nice gift, but nevertheless we do not favour them with the opportunity to sell us dessert. You serve me icecream instead, later, after we have danced. Looking after me is just what you do.

When I arrived for the weekend, I took the train in. It’s always comfortable, but too crowded that particular night to fight the line in the dining car, so you met me with food. It’s been a bad eating week for me again, a fact that I am not proud of, but being home in my space is driving me a bit nuts when I try to cook.  

I daydream about kitchens that are not shoved into main areas. I am well sick of exposed, designed for people who don’t cook counters that push atrocious storage and a strict inability to let anything be, lest it become noxious clutter. I keep optimizing, all the endless expenses to try to make the space livable. Hooks for this and that, shelves expanding outwards and upwards. Ultimately no compensation can fix a cramped, poorly laid out space with too many things in it. And there’s no walls in spaces, anymore, a victim of the open plan trend. Sharing these spaces is even more frustrating, because there’s twice as much room to let the dishes or the mess get away from you.

If, perhaps, I lived flung out from my work by another 30 minutes, I might have my own solo shoebox, on my comfortable middle class salary. It pays more, on this coast, but rents jack up to eat one’s earnings. But, even paying more, the kitchen would still be in my bedroom, or at best, still in my living room. On the west coast, new construction is the norm. I think they are so cheap, regardless of the actual cost, they would leave the doors off bathrooms, if they could justify it.

Case in point: Tech job or not,  your kitchen, the one I danced in, is “open plan” as well. This pivot and swirl smooth space I slide about in is an island of no texture in the otherwise stucco and wall to wall carpet, an alley of linoleum fenced between appliance and an island counter. For this visit, you draped the island in a rich quilt, handmade in a medley of turquoise and blue, serving as tablecloth to display a bouquet of flowers. Pink and purple and green, stems capped by pale, fat roses that remind me of babygirl birthday cakes. Just for me, to be pretty to look at for the weekend.

We’re in the approximate orbit or Valentine’s day, so we brought each other gifts to unwrap, too. Yours were piled up on the kitchen island when I got there, mine hand wrapped in sticker covered tissue paper and tied with real satin ribbon. You gave me a cape-capped coat dress with a flash red lining;  a box of fancy tea; costume brooches; and spangle-sparkly tuxedo bodysuit that tugs at your fetishes to lift the collective sense of power over you, even as the glitter roughness of the fabric repels your touch. I gave you a high end, self thrusting sextoy by lovense.

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Various Kinds of Desire Together, In August

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In theory this was a last longer visit before I return to work. The two body problem kicks back into gear, as my office job cannot be imported over the border, WFH or not. I am a Canadian, and though Silver is more portable in his skill set, Vancouver consistently swings below competitive in tech salaries. We make do, but for now we cram the time together before I must return from portable disability to fixed labour law compliant behaviour.

It feels like visiting another life. He emphasizes “Home”, wanting me to feel that way, and makes every pain to make it that comfortable, but my practical roots are still paying $1000 to share a two bedroom with a friend, and my brain still parks myself there at my legal address. Home isn’t where my heart is, but where my childhood teddy bear, resting on my pillow, and my mess and the clutter I am still struggling to grapple.

With him, I think we have started to escape the honeymoon extra effort period. Even as he continues to dote on me, this feels sustainable.  We have passed the first year or so where everyone is on their extra best behaviour. But, with the matter of the extreme step of moving to make this permanent, my life is an Elizabeth Barret Browning sonnet:

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

And be all to me? Shall I never miss

Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

When I look up, to drop on a new range

Of walls and floors … another home than this?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese 35

I think I could be happy in this quiet domesticity. Working on writing projects on my computer. A farmer’s market in the morning, doing our laundry in that continuous cycle of always being more to do daily, and making us meatballs from scratch for dinner. He puts up with my criticisms of his bachelor kitchen patiently. It’s not the franks’n’beans and no paper towels squalour we stereotype men with. It’s the not having to answer to anyone but yourself- so there’s a kitchenaid mixer, but the grater has a crack in the plastic frame, and things I take for granted aren’t there. And yet… Sure he has less cake pans, but he owns more pots than me, in fact in many ways more things on hand than I do. Deviance in our kitchens is more personal preference than otherwise. Though my tools tend to get junked when they break, I am still getting my shit together after what amounts to 5 moves in 10 years.

The steady progress here says that in another while, there will be a move there, too. All the things I established in Vancouver, my nest, will need to be upended, those possessions that transformed money into comfort and convenience winnowed for duplicates and storage. I am a person who wants roots who has lived relatively rootlessly. I wonder now, if my nest making was foolish and I should have expected to be shaken loose from each new home in the speed I did.

There’s a bit of care there, on my part, sensitive to feeling less than in the totality of the measure of our lives. Though I apply therapy to my insecurity like an ointment, the thought is ever there with a deep penetration. Reader, if you came here to see an ice and leather goddess regiment worms under her boot, or see a woman drift guilt free on a tide of consensual exploitation, alas it’s been ten years of disappointing you and counting. here, we have naught but the neurotic and horny, a fiercely distrustful and scruffy mélange that leads me to only half facetiously say I’m certified femdom trash. 

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Water, Hay Fever, Cum, Bodies and Breath Play

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Allergies boil my head, but his body is an aesthetic dream. My twitter feed’s a minutiae of trying to clear my head of goo, unerotic except to that one person with a histamine fetish (I mean there must be?).

Silver has the gift of most smaller men, proportion easy, then honed with dedication at a gym. He refused to admit he is muscular, calling it into question because his shoulders and arms don’t stay swollen like frozen hams when they are not flexed. He was also incredulous when I pointed out we should probably size up in condoms, because I had to fight to get the standard size down his dick at the last inch.

Even now, the Magnums, with their bold branding, actually the middle not the extreme, from the drug store’s offerings, create a sort of self conscious cringe. Neither he, nor I find much pleasure in harping on imaginary inadequacy. We never developed a taste for the male sub standard of claiming your partner doesn’t do it for you and attaches a certain self defeating aura to the dominant. No knock to your own kinks, but if I am going to own someone I want to think they aren’t a sexual imposition.

I began the weekend by offering him the chance to come, right then, or be denied on my terms as per usual. He picked the latter, of course, for fun in teasing. My god, he’s pretty and I’m horny. My botched IUD install and its correction is wearing off and I get wet easy. But, it’s not his tight little body I adore, by itself. Aesthetically, yes, it’s nice, but subtract my love and the possibility of control and certain tensions and I would have an immunity.

I skim the sex scenes in novels, not repulsed, but bored, often preferring “fade to black”. The intensity *to* bed can do it for me. And yet, now, with him, even writing this, the texture of his flesh when I squeeze it is an alluring sense memory.

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Confessions of a Sadistic Femdom

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sadistic femdom sex graph

All my pain games with my partners, my denial, teasing and so forth are pursuing a very particular outcome. Because it turns me on and makes me feel deeply connected to my so called victim. It is not a script- the means and confirmation of the goal is subjective; psychologically intimate; and physically impossible to clone beyond that creative moment, together. For me, my sadism is an intersection with my empathy with their suffering, and that sense of lost of will and control I perceive from them.

My biggest challenge in partners is that I need them to be aroused by what I am doing. I cannot do pain just as a power trip, no matter the consent offered. The desire can be after, or in a complex way, but broader experience has taught me that there is a scope of sensation and framing here I need to have echoed back.

As a submissive, Silver answers with joy to being called a “slutty little masochist”. I could not have it any other way, but if I thought about anything in sincere terms of being blessed, his welcome and obvious lust at my sadistic femdom cravings would go high up on that list. Torment him and I am riding a buzz. And, hilariously, we always end with being surprised to be getting a thank you from each other after. Each thinks the acts of the other are a gift.

Hurting Silver, last night

The rubber band snaps and he gives a yelp that is closer to a sob. Silver is in latex, transparent gloves and corseted leggings. We have explored with the potential of the tens unit I got him for his birthday last year, and of rope. A Lithuanian supplied, Soviet army surplus rubber gas mask gives him an oddly cute look, the old fashioned metal circles of the goggles amplifying the size of his pretty eyes. It was a a Christmas gift for him this year and I am very pleased with it.

When I want, I can put my hand over the air flow, instant easy breath play. The shape is snouted, adding an unexpected stubby cuteness. For fun I put him on all fours and reach forward to put my finger over the air intake while I slide his cock down my throat. It’s intense for me, and I feel him brush against my teeth, playing the game, no air for you, no air for me. When he is settled in place, it’s a rare moment where he doesn’t essentially freeze up in obedient attention, his cock begins to pump in and out in my throat. Yes. Fuck me. No concern for himself and being proper, mindless thrusting into that still unfamiliar wetness with the threatening edges of the possible sharp bites I could give.

I am in black latex, cat suit, neck to toes. The sweat pools at my hip level, mingling with the wetness of my arousal. I feel squeezed but not restrained, after a struggle to get it settled just so. I under lubricate my latex, I don’t like slime on my skin. And, even if it hurts a bit I like that rubber grip tugging where it touches.

The rubber bands for his cock and balls started for my hair to help it stick out the ports of my own latex hood. That garment is now discarded, and when the tens unit got its tour, after brief session wrenching his traps, I went after his cock. The pads weren’t interested in sticking- it didn’t like his skin very much in general, but I m a clumsy improviser, the drunken boxer of kinky sex. Elastics made the pads into proper contacts for the prickles of the electricity, to tease his erection.

Only a tease, though.

It was an interesting sensation, but even on high it didn’t hurt him significantly. I needed him to suffer, this wouldn’t do! When it forced the big muscles on his back to shudder and twitch that was, at least a delight as far as the look of disquiet and pressure on his face and the aesthetic forced flexing. So, this toy was put aside for other games.

And yet in my check a single black rubber band was left on the mid length of his cock. There are the thin kind, designed to be invisible in my dark hair, not thread or cloth wrapped. It looked like it was meant to be there, with all the latex.

I played at bondage, earlier, capping the tops of his opera length gloves in a way that let me pull his arms behind his back. I put him in a web, with that grey rope, to admire the warm swell of skin. Now he’s free of ties, except for that thin black line. I go to take it off, and then playfully pull and let it snap back.

It hurts. Its sharp, even against the mid length of him. SNAP. Again and again, alternating targets and sides. I move it about, finding misery in the thin band just below the head. And of course his balls. SNAP.

Those are even worse. Some cosmic jester decided, in protection of the species that cocks were made to take a beating, dumb things that they are, for all the hold nerve rich promise of an orgasm. But, break your balls, and all bets are off. SNAP.

I can’t do serious harm with a cheap elastic. After four or five pulls it is starting to permanently stretch out, losing bite. I smile, drawn in by his whimpers. He does not like this. Like virtually everyone I have played with, Silver prefers thud over sting. Masochists are descriptive connoisseurs, communicating their feelings in a million ways. I think that’s how they know they need to seduce us, if we can’t feel what they feel secondhand, what are we dominants to do?

I fetch two more elastics and make free with him. I am being intentionally nasty, putting on the bully voice. It’s a bit meta, acknowledging the ridiculousness of all this. If a cat could speak while it made a game of the mouse, this is how I imagine it would sound. Predatory violence, not reactive, joyful not terrified.

Its already a mind fuck to grapple that he can barely stand a rubber band or two popping him in the balls. Little pinpoint, plum bruises make stars where I have snapped. And I keep asking, “oh, what’s wrong, does it hurt?”

Edge play now.

I keep asking him if he thinks he wants to stop. Every so often he needs a break and then says he can continue. His erection hasn’t left us, maybe because of the beautiful trap of his latex fetish and my clear enjoyment. If he went soft I would stop. I wonder if he knows that. I know he can take more, its abrupt and awful, but not like being burned or similar past human sensibility ways to make a point.

Overthinking the thoughtless part

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A Little Bit of Good This Christmas

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I am extremely happy to say the site, with the help of a technically skilled person, has been returned to functionality with a full, clean re-install. After 10 years, it was apparently full of ghosts and accidental messes, as well as bits and pieces that were leftover from past projects. The theme is readable and responsive, enough to serve you the femdom stories that remain the primary draw, without tying you to a particular device.

I am writing this as I delay making gingerbread cookies (to sit in the fridge overnight). Tomorrow Silver is going to drive up to haul me off to Washington, the theory being that if we are going to weather a complete holiday shut down, doing so in each other’s company is less unpleasant than apart. Although they haven’t hurt the borders yet, its been threatened, and I’d hate to do another 6 months, not knowing when we might be reunited. Behind me, a muffled YouTube playlist of vintage Christmas carols, artfully distorted to sound played on a record player in the next room adds a degree of festive feeling to a pretty grey time. It’s not so bleak, I suppose, as it might have been same time last year, when I cancelled seeing Silver, as covid rates inevitably spiked. That year, flying was the only option and going through air travel seemed a high risk activity on top of border hopping.

We are also coming in on our two year anniversary, if you back date things, or a year and a half if you count from formal negotiation of “dating”, which came after D/s. That’s us, backwards from lust into something deepening out. It feels odd, because it fits so perfectly well, that moment when you look at something on the rack “nah nice, but an impulse buy! Never going to fit me!” But try it on anyway and you don’t need to think of even tailoring it. Occasionally I wonder at how well he suits, in that way where I pay a therapist $150 an hour to convince me I deserve nice things.

More or less at this time, I went to an event in the social orbit of Seattle so I could hook up with him. And I did, and after, I told myself that if I wasn’t going to accept his extended kindness, what was the point even? So I did, and fell in love with him.

Today Silver dealt with various fuss around car maintenance, winding up into an increasing frazzle as he tried to make pieces fit to pick me up. He doesn’t like me having to take an Uber to the border, and doesn’t like me having to pay the expense of the ride and have me walk over. He will swab himself and wait 24 hours for his test results, to shuttle me up and back, three to four hours drive. My scumbag brain tries to come up with a reason this is an inadequacy on my part, because apparently it doesn’t want to admit someone can just care about me that much. Enough to spare me $60 and a 40 minute car ride and 20 minutes of ridiculous security theatre.

An old friend, one of those humans you find is relentlessly good to you, helped me fix the gnarled up back end of my website. Every step of the way she apologized for giving me good advice. For imposing with her help. The site is now clean and crisp and no longer fighting against posting things or going down every thirty minutes. Then she trusted me to give her a name for a project she is working on, and my scumbag brain told me asking me was a favour to me.

Silver just about apologized for not being better at the back end of websites. As if it were his job to be all thing to me, as if it were a lack on his part. I understand that urge powerfully, I don’t think it is submissive thing. I think it is the complex tangle of how humans love.

If his apartment wasn’t so small as to probably drive us crazy, if I didn’t need $600 of Botox stabbed into my head every three months, and business with OTs and so forth, it would be tempting to just weather the current spike of plague nestled up in his home.

There, this stream of consciousness is written and I have taken a tranquillizer to prevent the excitement of tomorrow and a thread of anxiety from throwing me off my sleep. There’s disks of gingerbread dough in the fridge and when I made it I felt a little bit of Christmas, a pure bit of joy it would be ok. Tomorrow I have a handful of must do errands before I go, filling a prescription, rolling, cutting and baking cookies, and finishing a gift. I must settle on the things for my suitcase. There may be a family to meet: “Hi Mom, this is my domme!”

Ok, no, it’s that mutual thing where the leather fetish stories fall short as I make a presentation of myself that is not fake, it’s translated. And like any good translation, the meaning will not be lost though the context and language will adapt to the audience. I pack bright kelly green tights and a red plaid dress, and consider I have 12 days to fill otherwise. Latex, in crinkly paper. Twangy body harnesses, lingerie. Plain black cotton panties with lace edges to match. Black tights, opaque, worn in this style since high school, skirts. I seldom wear pants. Shoes must be picked carefully as even with a bigger bag they make bulk.

I am packing a jar of mincemeat. I expect to co-opt flour and butter and two knives to slice vigorously. This particular recipe takes forever to bake and makes my diners convert to pie. I don’t expect him to like the rich taste of peel, raisins and alcohol. But it is my Christmas to eat them. In our last video call before bed, a habit that’s turned into 3 or 4 calls a day, he showed me he picked me up some shortbread. He has put a box for me in his bathroom I can stash those things one makes a habit of- shampoo and conditioner and so forth. We are at the drawer-at-your-place stage in our relationship.

The orgasm denial is making him into a mess. Every time I see his cock, hard and erect I immediately get his with the scent memory of sex. We’ve passed pleasantly aroused and into needy, unable to shut down the drive to pursue and touch. Tomorrow he will be unable to stop touching me. I am sadistically winding him up until he can tell me he needs me. I am pushing his limits, my unstintingly giving man.

And perhaps I will let him come before New Years. It is, after all, Christmas.

Je te rievens / I come back to you

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Whoops, this sat in drafts as the remainder of August and the first half of September into real life obligations and migraines. Here’s the yearning horny, albeit a bit belated!

My body wakes me up at 3AM for its own reasons and I seek his warmth and scent. I find him gone, and I am in my own bed, feeling his absence as a sense-ghost in my memory.

I think about the history he told me, discovering his submission online. Of his eager acceptance of what I say when I assert this or that in my tinkering with the comforts of life. I think about one, then two fingers sliding into his ass, my tugging, pinching and hurting him, and the interplay of our desires through his pain. Of the texture of his hard cock in my mouth, just slight slicked with the oil from the flavourless silicone we use.

I think about how odd it feels to spend two weeks where my sadism can uncoil itself without ceremony, whenever, however. Limits of reason are not something I care to exceed, so I am truly free to do as I wish. It really feels like a visceral thing in my chest, stuffed away behind my breasts. Tonight, at 3 AM in the dark, these ache. 

With him, cruelty happens as easily as a fresh cup of tea, his skin blooming in whatever the latest thing I do. The marks flare bright and usually fade in less than an hour.

I consider you, I consider you… 

The lyrics bounce about in my head, Anges Obel’s Beast. I have run my mile like the stanzas suggest, appreciating this wholeness with him. For the first time in a long time I felt fully unfolded, imagination painting me as something monstrous that usually keeps itself shrunk down. Something with long claws, like hooks, and a flexible body.

He is so small in my arms when I wrap around him. He who is three inches taller, and who I strain to reach when we kneel together to fuck him from behind.

I slap, strike, spank. He fast colours and fast fades, my hands marking for an hour, excepting a few bruises. I bend my mind around his circumstantial masochism, understanding the pain that is good pain, and the bad pain that is very wanted. It took me a few goes to understand that gentleness with fucking his ass was not needed, unlearming the chiding “ouch” from past partners and best practices, to trade for vigorous violation.

After we play particularly hard, perhaps an hour later, when my need to know overturns my commitment to the quieter moment, I watch his eyes and almost hear a click, as he tries to make the experience of me on him into words. It doesn’t come easy, but he knows I need him to articulate the nuances. I am oddly particular about his motives, for all that I glory in my sadism’s freedom.

My mind is a strange time traveller

All the time I visited him, I struggled with a blog post that put to words the sensation of having my mind focus on what’s next, beyond my visit. Now that it is past, I find myself, instead returning to the time before. Of all things, the memory of his smell leaves the strongest means to travel back.

It’s ironic because he is not particularly pungent. He has switched, recently, to some spice and old leather soaps, but it’s not those, as nice as they are, that places him so intensely he is a taste in my tongue and sinuses. 

When we fuck, the ghosts of us bloom beyond our bodies. If my sadism is something in my chest, our sex scents, older than the species, are a warmth of considerable comfort that emerge from us both to soothe. I wondered out loud at that, if others might sense him on me and react, if, in the way of humans it would turn men away or drive them more intrigued.

Perhaps nobody could tell, but where we fucked and laid together, we became overlapped, and myself wearing his scent like his arms about me.

The morning when I left, I didn’t shower, nor the night before, jealously keeping him on my body. But, by the afternoon, settling back into Vancouver, hot water and an engulfing robe gave me comfort. And still it is like I remember the scent now and that becomes enough.

Grey morning,  

It’s now morning as I write this, and the city is ghost calm, the only noise the compressor of the fridge and the hum of the furnace. His bedroom is quite noisy. You wouldn’t think thus, for he would swear to you he prefers suburban calm, but the condos of the area have pushed the density considerably. Things whine and woosh on the road, mumbles travel up from below and yells make their way from outside.

I want to hear his voice: the rumble hinting the bottom depths of it, the slight lisp when he is tired or the plastic braces that keep his teeth straight while he sleeps are snapped in place. The way he finally became less self conscious and let himself sing along a bit to music. The working from home professional voice, listened to while I poke at my laptop and appropriate the sex wedge as a back rest.

Just before I left, I asked a bit about his past, the before me. He was precisely honest in a way that brought out details from memory, but also sparse in some things. I am not the first woman he has submitted to, taking on the mutual self discovery with a long term online friend.

He is careful, understandably, as any man would be when their partner says “tell me about your ex”, but for me it is more a comforting sequence of knowing not precisely the erotic details, but how he made his way into understanding what we do. I am fishing, not for comparison, but to find what part might be submerged, mapping out a depth.

I think that I am largely open about myself. Too open, by most standards: sex blogger, sharer of feelings and criticisms, quick to say what I think. I want to be recorded, understood, and, I guess, accepted. I know the latter two are unlikely, but I am shockingly good at getting myself heard. Silver? I watch him manage to make small talk that is warm, friendly and doesn’t even reveal an opinion on a sports team, much less politics, even casual hobbies. He’s as hard to grasp as a breeze.

Strangers on the internet know I still suck my thumb in my sleep sometimes, and that I repeatedly miss shaving a few of the hairs on my ankles until I start to resemble a clydesdale. Silver, meanwhile, is the first person I met to whom “still waters run deep” is actually true. I used to think a core part of loving someone completely was knowing them with the same thoroughness, now I come to discover it’s more like a compulsive need to explore until I do.

I could dig for a long time before I’ve mapped (mined?) all of Silver.

This is also the first relationship I have been in that I put myself utterly first. This sounds luxurious, but actually it’s painful and often very bruising to my ego. You see that means a lot of addressing my self protective crazy. It makes my critical of past loves, as something I am unsure about is at what point did perfectionism in muffling my distress become dishonesty and at what point was it a boundary?

There now, reader, I have contradicted myself. An open book who somehow always shocked her exes with the depth of her dissatisfaction with tthem. An honest speaker of her thoughts who uses the needs of others to not think too hard about what she wants.

With Silver, from day one, I placed my standards higher. I extended my desires, and treated my wants like needs. He meets them. Oh my goodness does he meet them.

I am all aflutter with terror because I want him so very badly. This in turn makes an insecurity that the needy anchor seeker in me will terrorize him into trying to protect me by pulling back. I am trusting he won’t, thus far he isn’t.

I am cared for.

He drives me back to Vancouver, so I can walk the park length left to the border and cross back. On the way, he thoughtfully pulls into the little lighthouse Starbucks of a small town just before things shade from the poverty sprawl of Northern Washington to the wealth of south eastern suburban Greater Vancouver. 

Although most of what we just drove through was industrial boxes, here it’s a picturesque core of a small town. Autumn is hinting, a stroke of orange or a bloom of the first hint of red in some of the leaves, and a grey, chilly mist whispering that maybe the angry scourge of summer heat is done. Autumn is a weakness that turns me into romantic mush.

Masts from a marina peeping below the parking lot. I don’t want to leave him. I imagine a half dozen perfect maybe somedays as I steal what kisses I can. We reach the parking lot of the peace arch and he walks me to the border, where I will cross.

He likes a long, lips pressed kiss best. His kisses fascinate me, like nobody else. His cock settles in my body more easily than any other. He has the darkest blue eyes I have ever seen.

I am full to bursting with “what’s next, now!?”

What’s next? Here I am in Canada, first day back, I am considering my balcony garden and what parts survived my absence. Inexplicably the tender first zucchini that died in the heat wave came back robust, maybe there will be a crop. I regret only the goth cherry tomatoes, tenderly nurtured into bushy green from scant seeds from etsy. 

Life will continue. Delta will do its thing, in theory at some point in September he will make an expensive trip to see me. But, we will be apart, for now and wait to see what will come next.

Excuse Our Dust (From Seattle)

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A visit to Silver in Seattle

Oh whoopsies, broke a few things on the site there, didn’t I? Hopefully the new template tweaks are working nice and smooth in your browser. Feel free to leave a comment if they are not! Otherwise, it’s been busy these last few weeks, but up until last week, maybe not so exciting.

What have I been up to this summer?

No sooner did I get into doing live streams, but an amazingly awful blanket of heat waves hit my province, turning my possible filming space into a sauna. I do not like it when my gloomy, damp home turns into a place where the weather is literally “firestorm”. Still, all wasn’t bleak, despite having to resort to covering my windows in tinfoil like I was a conspiracy theorist doing interior design. During the truly medically terrifying heat wave, Silver gifted me with a few nights in hotel, coming to the rescue with his very typical eagerness. He is good to me that way. This was also a pretty major milestone for me to trust someone enough to let them give me something at that cost.

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